


forget the bottle

by sinfulchihuahua0602



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Captured by Nilfgaard, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Magical Fuckery, Mind Manipulation, Nilfgaard, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Solitary Confinement, Torture, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Ships It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25275991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfulchihuahua0602/pseuds/sinfulchihuahua0602
Summary: Jaskier has always felt things on a deeper level than most, and more often, and he has gone through life this way. He has coping mechanisms, of course - drinking, talking, singing, etc. He can't be overwhelmed by his emotions all the time, after all.After the mountain, Jaskier's coping mechanism is drinking. Turns out, there's something in it, and Nilfgaard knows exactly how to break the songbird.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 27
Kudos: 334





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> alright, so here is the zillionth captured-by-nilfgaard fic. and, yes, whenever i mention valdo marx + jaskier hate-fucking, i am passive-aggressively yelling at the fandom for not having more of it. it has massive potential, and i don't write smut. (aka, please link me to any amazing top/dom valdo and bottom/sub jaskier hate-fucking, i love it)
> 
> again, scheduled tuesday and thursday posting.

Jaskier felt too much. 

He’d always felt too much. He spent his younger years raging at his parents, raging at the world, though he didn’t know what he was raging at, only that he wanted to  _ get away, be free.  _

And when he was old enough, he went to Oxenfurt and learned - learned academics, learned the arts, and he flashed through emotions quicker than he did love. The world was new, the world was bright and big and bold and Jaskier wanted nothing more than to carve himself a place in it. 

And he did. He went to an inn in Posada and met a white-haired Witcher, and he learned some more. Learned of the darker emotions - not just anger, but  _ revenge,  _ and not just sadness, but  _ despair, oppression.  _ The world was new, still, the world wasn’t quite bright anymore but it was big and bold and Jaskier still wanted to carve himself a place in it, by way of one grumpy, golden-eyed, white-haired Witcher. 

So Jaskier went through the world, and he  _ felt.  _ He felt pain lance through him, sharp as any blade - pain of heartbreak, pain of rejection, pain of actual physical wounds. He felt happiness, like warm honey falling gently over him - contentment when he sat by the fire with Geralt and sang into the shadows, joy when he roused an entire tavern into singing and stamping with him and he danced between them all, singing his heart out to the world. 

He also felt love, in a more permanent sense than he’d ever felt it. Love was…. a peculiar sensation for him. He fell into love hard, and fast, and deep - both literally and metaphorically; Jaskier did enjoy the  _ finer  _ things in life, and he wasn’t above flirting and taking everyone he met to bed, sometimes at the same time. He adored people, like soft warmth rising in him. Lust was sharp and primal, carnal in its intensity, and Jaskier sharpened it into something intricate, turned it into pretty words and meaningful looks and determined intent. 

And he loved, loved with his whole being, loved with his entire heart. Jaskier gave a piece of his heart to everyone he met, and sometimes he took it back after a fleeting infatuation, sometimes it stayed with them and he yearned. Valdo Marx was one of those people - he had loved him as he did anyone, had ended up hating him, but Valdo was not a fleeting love. Jaskier still loved him, even if it was only for their sharp back-and-forths and the truly  _ mind-blowing _ hate sex they had occasionally - Valdo knew him better than anyone, except for Geralt. 

Geralt was different. For Jaskier, love shot through him like a lightning bolt - or, Cupid’s arrow. Sometimes it went out the other end and left, sometimes it stuck and bled and scarred. With Geralt, it had shot through him like any other person, except it had stuck, it hadn’t bled, and it hadn’t scarred. Jaskier loved Geralt, and he was never so selfless that he never wanted more of him despite having what he already did, but if he was truly forced to choose, Jaskier would have been perfectly content with the life he led with the Witcher, would have suffered through the pain of pining after him if he got to stay. 

Jaskier hadn’t chosen, though. Geralt had chosen for him, and he had decided that he didn’t need him, didn’t want him, and Jaskier had granted him his oh  _ so  _ desired blessing, and left. 

Heartbreak felt like needles, stabbing him, over and over and over, in multiple places, and when he thought it was done, he’d see something and he’d be pricked again, it would draw blood. 

Jaskier had grown very good at coping with his feelings - he couldn’t go through life being overwhelmed by all of his emotions. He did this in all manners of ways - writing songs and singing them, putting on the optimistic act to simultaneously let out emotions while hiding others, and talking, constantly. One of his better - or, well, quite unhealthy but very effective - coping mechanisms was drinking, which was what he was currently using on the heartbreak needling at him. 

He stared into the tankard of ale, which tasted more like piss than actual ale, and sighed. Even the damn ale reminded him of Geralt. 

Maybe the Cupid’s arrow for Geralt had started bleeding. Jaskier wasn’t sure if it would scar. 

He groaned and dumped coins on the table, ignoring the flirtatious looks some women were giving him. He would have accepted it at any other time, would have lost himself in pleasure, but he felt slightly dizzy and he wanted nothing more than to find someplace to sleep, without practically selling his body for it. He didn’t have enough coin for a room, so he’d have to sleep out in the woods. Which,  _ dammit,  _ was just like he used to do with Geralt. Minus the Witchery protection now, of course. 

Jaskier’s head was thoroughly spinning by the time he got out of the inn, and he knew something was wrong. He was drugged, he knew what it felt like to be drugged, having been enough times that Geralt actually berated him for having to rescue him. He ran through in his head what drug it could be, landed distantly on the salty taste of the ale, and cursed under his breath. Or, maybe it was a curse. Jaskier’s head was too fuzzy to figure out whether it came out as an actual word or as incoherent noises. 

He saw shadows out of the corner of his eye - black, large, vaguely terrifying considering the way he stumbled and couldn’t think straight. He was caught by two strong arms,  _ Geralt  _ flashing quickly through his mind before a voice that was decidedly  _ not  _ Geralt whispered in his ear, smooth and cruel. 

“Hey, little songbird,” not-Geralt said. “We’ve been looking for you.”

“Fuck off,” Jaskier replied. Or didn’t. He didn’t know, his head was spinning and he felt a headache pounding and his limbs were growing slow and heavy, and the darkness dragged him down all too easily. 

-0-0-0-

Jaskier woke up cold, and shivering, and very, very confused. He was laying on his side on a stone floor, feeling like he had been dunked in ice water - which, maybe he had, because his hair  was dripping wet still and plastered to his face. His hands were behind his back, and at an experimental tug, they were tied together too. He wore nothing but his pants, and his bare shoulder pressed against the cold stone. 

Jaskier cursed, both from his situation which had rapidly come back to him, and the very annoying strands of wet hair that had decided to plant themselves directly in his eye, and managed to roll himself onto his back with some effort. He lifted his head as much as he could and shook his hair out of his face, trying very hard to ignore the feeling of it plastered to his cheeks, his neck, just all over the place. He took the brief time to berate whoever had kidnapped him on hair care - honestly, did no one know how to dry hair? He liked to keep his hair soft and this was decidedly not the way to do it. 

Of course, none of this was what he believed. He was ignoring the fear crawling up in him, feeling like spiders and making his skin itch, feeling like ice trickling down his spine and tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. If he focused on anything other than the fear, then he wouldn’t be overwhelmed. It couldn’t do anything. 

Jaskier rolled himself back on his side in order not to crush his hands beneath him, and after a long, heated moment spent mentally berating whoever had kidnapped him, again, on the best positions for singing, he actually started singing. The lecture went on, still - every time his voice cracked very much not artfully, or every time he couldn’t pull in enough breath, he took a second to come up with some particularly creative insult in his head about calling him songbird and then prohibiting his ability to sing. 

He ignored the feeling of spiders crawling over him and the feeling of ice trickling down his spine. 

It was an undetermined amount of time, measured only by the fact that Jaskier got through eight songs verbally before he started shivering uncontrollably, and six songs mentally before the door opened and a woman in blue robes and two men in black Nilfgaardian armor strode in. 

He gave a dry laugh, ignoring the spiders crawling and the ice trickling. “Nice of you to stop by,” he said. “You know, it’s a bit contradictory when you call me songbird and then put me in a position like this, which is very much not conducive to singing, let me tell you.”

The woman in blue robes smiled and walked forward. She reached behind him and tugged harshly on the ropes tying his arms, pulling him into a kneeling position, before yanking him up to stand. Jaskier met her dark eyes, sensed the crackling undercurrent of magic around her, and supposed that this was Nilfgaard’s mage. Or one of them, at least. 

She held his gaze for a long moment, searching, before letting go. “Untie him,” she said, turning around and standing several paces back as the Nilfgaardian soldiers descended on him. 

Jaskier stood still, finding his heart suddenly pounding and adrenaline racing through him. This was his chance - he could try to escape now. 

The ropes dropped from his arms and he lashed out, landing a right hook in one of the soldier’s jaws and aiming for another in the other soldier, when the entire room  _ popped _ and Jaskier found himself slammed into by a wave of magic. His back hit the stone wall hard, knocking the breath out of him, and he gasped, arching. The sorceress walked forward, cruel emptiness in her eyes, watching him like he was a bug pinned to a board. Which, he supposed he was. 

He was always a bug pinned to a board, poked and prodded and seen as amusing by Geralt and Yennefer and now this damned mage. Gods, Jaskier hated being human.

“Don’t struggle,” she said, voice oddly serene. “It’ll only be worse for you.”

Jaskier scoffed, rolled his eyes and studiously ignored the fear threatening to overtake him. Sometimes feeling too much was a blessing, sometimes it was a curse. Right now, it was a curse. 

“Why? So I can become your puppet and you can do whatever you’d like to me? I’d be flattered you think of me that way, if this wasn’t a kidnapping,” he retorted sharply. The mage laughed,  _ amused,  _ and Jaskier tugged against his invisible bonds. Something in him wanted to cry at the fact that they didn’t even deem it necessary to tie him up, he was so weak and  _ human.  _

The mage didn’t respond - not to his question, anyway. Instead, she raised two fingers to trace along his jaw. “It’s better to get this over with now,” she said. 

Jaskier paled, felt the fear rising in him. “Get what over with? I’d rather you don’t-“

Her fingers landed on his forehead and his sentence ended with a scream. He arched against the invisible bonds, feeling the searing heat crawl into his mind,  _ flood  _ it with lava, with blood and pain and misery. She dissected his memories, sharply cleaving through every defense he had, and he felt the magic ripping through his body harshly, tearing through his mind. 

_ Jaskier slid into the wooden seat, bread shifting uncomfortably in his waistband - but that wasn’t important. What was important was the lack of a review, the golden eyes staring flatly at him and the two long, sharp, menacing swords sitting beside the man.  _

_ “Come on, you must have some review for me. Three words or less.” _

“No,” he gasped. “Don’t- please don’t-“

He screamed again as she ripped through another of his memories, feeling tears start in his eyes and the feeling of fear inch up his spine, waiting for the opportunity to get past his defenses and overtake him. 

  
_“How’s my_ singing, _Geralt?” Jaskier asked loudly, because oh he wanted to have this conversation. He was quite heartbroken from the Countess de Stael’s rude break off of their relationship, and he thought spending a good long while defending his singing with a loud,_ _ unrestrained sarcasm he hadn’t been able to use since he entered the Countess’s court would make him feel better. There was something freeing about being with Geralt, not having to tiptoe around the darker and dirtier things in life.  _

Jaskier gasped through the pain, shaking against the wall, mouth now opening wordlessly as he arched and the mage tore into memory after memory, pulling everything he ever felt, thought, said, did, into full view, forcing white hair and golden eyes into the forefront of his mind. She learned he felt too much, she learned he loved too much, she learned of the frankly embarrassing number of times he hate-fucked Valdo Marx. 

And she learned he loved Geralt with a love more permanent than anything he’d ever felt before. 

_ “If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take  _ **_you_ ** _ off my hands!” _

The agony ended with that line echoing in his head and he fell limp against the magic holding him to the wall, gasping for breath and still feeling the echoes of the searing pain ripping through his head. 

The mage was entirely unconcerned, standing and waiting with a blank look on her face until Jaskier caught his breath and sent her a glare. He growled - which, of course made him think of Geralt.  _ Damn _ the fucking Witcher who stole his heart. “Are you done? Learned anything useful?” he snarled, truly not giving a fuck about whether he angered her and made it worse. 

She traced her fingers along his jaw again, sliding them beneath his chin and raising his head, lowering herself down to look him in the eyes. “Oh, songbird. We learned so much. I'm going to enjoy breaking you.”

Jaskier felt the fear rise up in him, felt his breaths start to come shorter and tears fill his eyes, and forcefully shoved it down. He couldn’t let his emotions overwhelm him. 

“Why do you want me?” he asked, uselessly. He knew why they wanted him - and he knew he couldn’t give them the answers they wanted. Geralt had discarded him. 

The mage released his chin and stood up, not responding. Jaskier watched as she stepped back, flicked her fingers, and suddenly Jaskier fell hard to the floor. He gasped when the cold shocked through him, and the mage walked to the door with the soldiers. She turned back at him when he raised his head to look at her. 

“The Witcher has something we want,” she replied, and turned and left. The door slammed loudly behind her and the soldiers. 

Jaskier was left alone in the darkness, and the sudden drain of adrenaline from the mage ripping through his mind left him exhausted. He resisted the urge to cry; he kept up the dying hope that Geralt would save him, or he would escape, because they were the only things keeping back the flood of fear, and he knew if the fear and emotions overtook him then he would break.

For now, he curled up on the cold floor and let his eyes close, succumbing to the deep exhaustion and letting sleep take him. 

-0-0-0-

The mage introduced herself as Fringilla, and the next time she came in there were the same two soldiers with her. Jaskier had searched his cell when he woke up feeling marginally better, though still freezing cold, and found nothing - it was pitch dark, so he couldn’t see, but he had felt every inch with his hands and there was absolutely nothing that would help him escape. He could barely find the door in the darkness. 

The bright light blinded him and he covered his eyes as Fringilla and the soldiers walked in. He glared at them, backed away when the soldiers came up to him. They reached out and Jaskier laughed harshly, ducking out from under their arms. “Nope, no, I am not letting you touch me.”

Fringilla sighed impatiently as Jaskier kept dodging the soldiers, who did nothing more than walk steadily after him in the small space. He hated this, hated that he was trapped and couldn’t do anything other than run three feet from the soldiers and make himself look weak by prolonging it. They  _ still  _ hadn’t deemed him a threat enough to tie him up, for fuck’s sake. 

Jaskier would have enjoyed taking apart that delusion, if he wasn’t freezing cold, half-naked, outnumbered, and with no weapon to speak of. He uselessly avoided the soldiers for several more minutes, until even he was growing bored of the game, and the only thing that Fringilla needed to do was raise her hand before Jaskier was stopping, freezing like a deer in headlights, fear flashing through him. The soldiers took that opportunity and slammed him against the wall, hands pinning his arms and legs in place.

Jaskier wondered if the display of sheer power against him was intentional, deeming him too weak for chains or ropes, but Fringilla smiled in such a way that it was instantly confirmed and Jaskier bit back his noise of annoyance. It was truly insulting, and hit something deeper in Jaskier that was still fighting, that kept up hope. He figured that was the point - if they could restrain him so easily now, what was the point of fighting? It would only be worse. 

“Love,” Fringilla said, and Jaskier felt his stomach drop and his body go cold. If Nilfgaard wanted to break him, they certainly knew how to do it. 

“It’s a peculiar thing, isn’t it? So volatile. It’s the only thing us mages can’t predict,” Fringilla continued, voice low. 

Jaskier glared at her. “Shame. Thought you mages were all-powerful,” he snarked. Fringilla only looked amused.

“However,” she continued, ignoring his comment, “we can use it to our advantage.” And, yeah, that’s definitely not good for Jaskier, who squirmed just at the thought of what they could do to him regarding Geralt - because that was the only person he truly loved, really. 

She raised her fingers, intent in her dark eyes, and Jaskier barely had time to protest, fear shooting through him, before cool magic washed over him like ice water, and he sank into darkness. 

He saw the light first - saw the mountains in the distance, felt the clothes covering his back. Heard Geralt and Yennefer arguing below, saw Borch sitting on the ledge - and oh, fuck, this was the dragon hunt, he realized with a jolt of panic. 

“Like  _ fuck _ you didn’t,” came Geralt’s irritated voice, and Jaskier’s heart hurt just hearing it. He stood up, or, well, he tried to. There was a magical force pulling him down, forcing him to stay in the body of the Jaskier in his memories, the one who sat on the rock, and walked over, and then walked away. He wanted to cry, again, because he knew how this turned out and he could already feel the heartbreak needling at his skin, the pain of rejection lancing through him. He remembered how his dreams shattered like glass, and he cut himself on the sharp edges of them as he walked away. 

He stood up, walked over once Yennefer left. Spoke without wanting to, felt the insistent magic tugging at him. “Whew,” he said. “What a day. I imagine you’re probably-“

“ _ Dammit,  _ Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted sharply, whirling around to face him, and Jaskier felt the needles of heartbreak start pricking him, stabbing and drawing blood. He was stuck in his memory’s body, though, so he was forced to listen, feeling the tug of Fringilla’s magic on his voice, on his body. 

Geralt’s eyes were hard, burning with anger as he continued. “Why is it, whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s  _ you _ shoveling it?”

“Well, that’s not fair,” Jaskier replied, voice soft. It was just as painful the second time as it was the first, and back in the dark, cold cell, Jaskier was resisting the urge to cry. He didn’t want to relive this, it was too much for him to handle. 

“The Child Surprise, the djinn,  _ all of it! _ ” Geralt’s voice was harsh, everything about him was harsher and sharper and Jaskier was cutting himself on it, he was practically bleeding out with the force of the heartbreak ripping through him. He sang so many songs about Geralt, about him not being a monster, and Jaskier fought against the negative things said about Geralt with everything he had, but some dark, selfish part of himself whispered that maybe Geralt really was the monster everyone thought he was. He was certainly acting the part right now, hurting Jaskier in the most efficient, effective way possible. Jaskier was wrong when he said Geralt didn’t know how to use the blade of his words as effectively as steel and silver. 

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take  _ you  _ off my hands!”

Sharp pain lanced through him and Jaskier woke up gasping, laying on the cold floor. The cell was dark; Fringilla and the soldiers were long gone. Jaskier was alone. 

Jaskier shoved down the tears, shoved down the fear and heartbreak and emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Crying was not one of his coping mechanisms. Drinking was, talking was, singing was. Not crying, never crying. Jaskier would not show weakness. 

Well, he couldn’t drink. He had two options. Singing or talking. There weren’t many songs to sing that weren’t about Geralt - and he had just been painfully reminded of how he felt about him, thank you very much. So he curled up in a weak defense against the cold, and in a quiet, cracking, whisper of a voice, started to talk. 

-0-0-0-

Jaskier had fallen asleep in the middle of some sentence about geography, some passage he had memorized from a textbook when he was at Oxenfurt. He didn’t remember it now; didn’t need to. All he remembered now was the surge of fear as the cell door opened and Fringilla and two soldiers walked in. Jaskier looked up, too exhausted to think about physically fighting as they dragged him up from his position on the floor. 

He did fight verbally, though, if only because talking to someone to fight off his emotions was better than talking to himself. “In the old stories, the knights swept the princesses off of their feet,” he said. The soldiers started pulling him towards the door - he had a vague hope of escaping, though he felt like shit because he was being starved and really had to piss. “Does that make me the princess?”

Fringilla gave her signature, idly amused smile, the one that reminded Jaskier just how much he was a bug pinned to a board and surrounded by immortals who didn’t care for him. “You’re a bard, and nothing more. The place we’re taking you is not from the old stories.”

Jaskier frowned. “Shame. Oh, speaking of being a bard, why do you even keep me here? You already rifled through my mind, you saw Geralt abandon me. You know I don’t know where he is, or what he has that you want.”

Fringilla didn’t look bothered. “You’re still useful. You know the Witcher better than anyone else, you can tell us where he would go next. His patterns of behavior, the way he thinks. The best way we can ambush him. Or, if not, you’re good for bait.”

Jaskier laughed, and the sound was harsh and mocking. “He won’t come for me,” he said bitterly. “You’re delusional if, after looking at that memory, you think he would come back for me. He doesn’t care whether I live or die.”

Fringilla smiled. “You’re right. He doesn’t care about you, and he won’t come back. Whether you help us find the Witcher or not, bard, you’re still ours.”

It came so easily, so certainly, that Jaskier deflated in the soldier’s arms, staring at Fringilla with a sort of blank horror. She had looked through his memories, had seen everything he’d seen, and she was able to say with such smooth certainty that Geralt wouldn’t come back for him, and he was Nilfgaard’s now. It hit the same part of him that it had when they had so easily restrained him, the deeper part of him that glowed gold with hope even as the rest of him withered and broke. 

They stopped in front of a simple wooden door that Fringilla opened to reveal a room with a tub, toilet, and sink. Jaskier turned to the sorceress. “You’re giving me time to clean myself up?” he asked incredulously. “Doesn’t that go against, you know… _everything_ _about_ _torture_?”

Fringilla smiled again, but there was something darker in it. Jaskier resisted the urge to shiver at the dark promise hidden in her tone and smile. “You’re going to need it, bard. You won’t come back here for a long time.”

Jaskier felt the dread rise in him, like being touched by ice, and the fear. He nodded, staying quiet, and went into the room, flinching when the door slammed and locked behind him. 

An hour later, the door was opened and the two soldiers came to get him, just as he finished using the bathroom. Jaskier sighed. “I’m guessing you won’t pamper me as much anymore?”

Fringilla smiled in the same dark way when the soldiers pulled Jaskier through the hallways. “No.”

They got closer, and Jaskier thought he was immune, he thought he was still strong, but he thought of the pure darkness of the cell and the cold air and the sheer loneliness, and started struggling when he saw the metal door at the end of the hallway. The fear was threatening to overtake him, his breaths came shorter and his voice rose an octave. 

“Are you really sure you want to put me in there?” he asked, while pulling against the soldiers, who forcefully manhandled him down the hallway. His heart was picking up, and dammit he shouldn’t be this affected after two fucking days, but here he was. Nilfgaard had better torture tactics than they were given credit for - Jaskier had a bitter feeling that the reliving the hardest, most painful ten minutes of his life factored into the reason why he was so scared. “I’m sure there’s another option, something much less… well, dark and cold.”

“Will you answer our questions?” Fringilla asked. 

“No,” Jaskier replied automatically. He wouldn’t give up that easily, no matter how terrifying the cell was. 

Fringilla opened the door and the soldiers threw him in. He landed hard on the stone, still in only a pair of pants because that was all the clothes he was given in the bathroom, and he barely had  time to watch the sliver of light be sliced away by the door slamming before he was left in pitch darkness, the cold air already seeping into him. 

Jaskier sat up and leaned against the wall. He sighed, very firmly refusing the urge to cry, and stared into the darkness. He couldn’t even see the edges of the room, for fuck’s sake. 

He let out a breath that definitely  _ wasn’t _ at  _ all _ shaky, tilted his head back against the wall, and started to sing - about everything and anything, because he couldn’t give a fuck about whether the songs were about Geralt if it meant he was distracted from the pain of knowing this was all he would see for gods knows how long. After all, it was just another emotion to add to the pile, wasn’t it? Nilfgaard wouldn’t care if he broke down - fuck, they  _ wanted _ him to break down. Some dark part of him wondered if it would be easier to break down, stop fighting; it was only exhausting him anyway. 

_ “When a humble bard, graced a ride along…” _


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier fell asleep seven songs later, woke up, and didn’t know whether he was even awake. The cell was still completely dark, there were no sounds, nothing to indicate if he was awake or in a dream. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to ignore the panic dancing at the edges of his breath, the edges of his vision and his mind, and focused on the way he shivered in the cold. 

He sat silently against the wall for several minutes, not knowing what to do. He didn’t know what they were going to do to him, but he had barely been here for two days and he was already longing for human contact other than that damned sorceress and soldiers. He wanted to see  _ light,  _ wanted to see the sky and the sun and the flowers. Jaskier couldn’t believe he’d ever taken that for granted. 

He felt too much, all the time, and loneliness was no different. Heartbreak was needles, fear was spiders, dread was cold. Loneliness was just empty, hollow. Something in him that was just… a void, filled with nothing. Jaskier hated the feeling of loneliness more than most everything else, most likely because he so rarely felt it he didn’t have any defense against it. Singing and talking to nothing only lasted for so long, and Jaskier knew his limits. He wasn’t going to last, no matter how hard he tried. He was going to break to Nilfgaard, tell them everything he knew about Geralt, and he’d become their slave, he guessed. There were rumors that Nilfgaard participated in slavery. Or, he’d become some noble’s songbird. That was also a fate he didn’t want, but he supposed he wouldn’t have a choice. 

Jaskier leaned his head back against the wall again, brought his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, and started singing again. 

-0-0-0-

On the fourth day, Jaskier finally roused himself to move, driven by his parched throat and cracking voice. He found a bucket of water in the corner, almost spilled it when he found it with his roaming hands, and found a cup beside it. The water seemed clean - and even if it wasn’t, Jaskier would take anything he could get. They certainly weren’t giving him food anytime soon, so this was all he had to survive on. 

He dipped the cup in the water, finding it cold, and pulled it back out before drinking his fill greedily, like he hadn’t had water in days - which, he hadn’t. 

He filled it up three more times, and even the water didn’t fill the void of loneliness spreading in him. The water didn’t help the heartbreak needling at him, the fear making his skin itch, the dread trickling down his spine like ice. He had nothing to defend against his emotions, nothing to distract himself with except for a bucket of water and a cup, and he could feel himself falling, slowly breaking. 

Jaskier sighed, feeling the exhaustion of being starved for days pulling at him, and set the empty cup down, leaned back against the wall, and let sleep take him. Or not. He had no idea if this was a dream or if he was awake, it was so dark and he was so cold and so  _ tired.  _

-0-0-0-

Jaskier’s voice gave out on the eighth day. 

-0-0-0-

Jaskier was curled on his side on the floor on the sixteenth day, silent and shivering and so fucking hungry. The cramps bit at him, devoured him from the inside out, and he was left with only his mind - which wasn’t even at optimal speed either. 

He gave a soft whimper and curled up more, felt the cold stone press against his too-sharp, bare shoulder and too-thin feet, cried out as the sharp hunger pains lanced through him followed by the heartbreak and loneliness and fear and dread. It was all too much, far too much, and the smell of his piss in one corner he had designated wasn’t helping. 

Jaskier was breaking, slowly but surely, and Fringilla and all of Nilfgaard was waiting for it. 

-0-0-0-

_ Come on, Jaskier,  _ came Fringilla’s voice, in his fucking  _ mind,  _ and he jerked awake, eyes wide and darting around the room. 

He cried out, regretting the movement instantly as the hunger pains shot through his stomach and he returned to the fetal position, staying there after he realized it was all in his head. 

_ Come to Nilfgaard. We can help you, we will help you. All you have to do is open up to us, tell us the Witcher’s behavior,  _ came the mage’s calm voice, magic weaving around him. 

Jaskier groaned quietly, burying his head in his knees.  _ Fuck off,  _ he thought. 

_ You’ll see sense soon,  _ she said, and retreated just as Jaskier felt the magic sharpen into singular intent and sleep dragged him down. 

-0-0-0-

_ He’s not coming back for you, Jaskier. Don’t you want to get revenge? He discarded you like trash. That’s all you were to him. A nuisance, an annoyance. Nilfgaard will help you. We will help you make him see the wrongs done to you.  _

**_Get the fuck out of my head._ **

-0-0-0-

Jaskier tried to sing again on the twenty-eighth day, but his voice gave out on the first syllable and Fringilla’s voice replaced his, strong and smooth and so, so persuasive. 

_ He never liked your singing,  _ she said in his mind, magic twirling and weaving around him, fluid and easy. Jaskier envied it.  _ Never gave it a compliment, never called it something good. He insulted it, despised it. You would do better just to be quiet, like he wanted, if you were ever to go back to him.  _

Jaskier threaded his fingers in his hair and pulled, added the sharp pain of it to the pain of his hunger, the pain of his heartbreak and the numb of the loneliness, the ice of the dread and the acrid fear.  _ No,  _ he thought weakly.  _ Fuck off, fuck off, fuck  _ **_off._ **

Fringilla didn’t pay any mind to his protests.  _ He always told you your chatter was annoying. Didn’t you see what you were doing to him? _

Jaskier gave a full-body flinch when the magic around him sharpened into intent, drove into his mind, and ripped out the scene he tried so hard to forget, forcing it to flash through his mind in vivid color and sound. 

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take  _ you  _ off my hands!”

The magic left as quickly as it had come, and Jaskier started to shake as Fringilla’s voice continued. He hated this, hated it all  _ so much _ , wanted to cry and scream and rage, but he was stuck in a weak human body, being starved and isolated with nothing but the same  _ fucking  _ mage talking in his head for hours on end. He felt the hope still glowing inside him crack as he shook, splinter as tears started falling and he went limp against the floor. 

_ He never loved you. He is not coming for you. You can’t truly care about him anymore, not when he never cared for you. You annoyed him, you made it worse for him. Give up, Jaskier. He doesn’t care about you. No one is coming for you.  _

Jaskier cried, and shook, and didn’t even have the energy to tell her to fuck off. 

-0-0-0-

Thirty one days passed, though Jaskier wouldn’t know that. He was stuck in a haze of near-insanity, mentally talking to himself when he wasn’t talking to Fringilla, startled by every noise - not that there were many - and his heartbeat pounded constantly in his ears, like a drum. The cell smelled even more strongly like piss, and it was a miracle Jaskier still forced himself to move enough to get himself water and use the bathroom in the same corner. He couldn’t distinguish the magical dreams put in his head, of being held down by man’s hands and forced to relive his worst, most painful memories, from being truly awake in the unbroken darkness of the cell. 

He didn’t hold back on crying, now. His emotions had taken over sometime in the darkness, and they rolled over him like waves, tossing him around and ripping through him, leaving deep wounds behind. He shook and cried and lay there, his hope slowly draining, curled up and slipping into unconsciousness more often than out of it.

Fringilla stopped talking to him, but her words echoed in his head often enough, and Jaskier was beginning to believe it. There wasn’t any evidence that Geralt loved him, in any of his memories. He saved his life because he was human and Geralt thought it was his duty, there was nothing more to it. Jaskier had been nothing more than a burden to the Witcher for all twenty-two years. 

He could feel the mage’s magic weaving around him still, and he could feel the darkness creeping up on him. He sighed, went limp against the floor, and felt all his thoughts and feelings and strength drain from him like water in a tub, until he felt numb. A shell, to be used and reused and filled with whatever they wanted. 

_ You win,  _ he thought, just before sleep took him. 

_ I surrender. I’ll do what you want. Just please make this stop.  _

-0-0-0-

Jaskier woke to the sound of screaming. 

It took him a moment to recognize it wasn’t his, and then he had to pinch himself to figure out it wasn’t a dream, and then he flinched at the loud clang of steel against steel coming from outside his door. It was too loud; his heartbeat pounded in his ears, the noise was too much from the silence he’d been in for a month. He curled up tight, covering his ears, feeling his breath come shorter and shorter. 

Fuck. He smelled smoke. Something was burning, there was a fire. He was going to die here, he thought hysterically, in a cell cold and alone and half-mad. He wanted Nilfgaard to save him; at least he knew they needed him, they were predictable. They wouldn’t kill him, and somehow that was a comfort to Jaskier. 

The door to his cell opened, the hallway glowed with fire burning orange behind his eyelids and Jaskier screamed, scrambling away from the intruder he could feel stepping towards him. It wasn’t Fringilla, he knew, and it wasn’t the Nilfgaardian soldiers, because the footsteps were too quiet. 

In another life, he might’ve recognized the strong scent of leather and sword oil, but he was too scared and everything was happening too fast, the light was too bright and everything was too  _ loud,  _ too  _ much.  _

Jaskier struggled against the arms wrapping around him, struggled with the blind desperation of a cornered animal. There came a displeased, confused grunt above him -  _ good _ , he thought, they weren’t supposed to take him from Nilfgaard. Fringilla wouldn’t like it, and he had promised he’d be good for her if only to stop the isolation. He was so close to being free, as free as he could be, and now it was being ripped from him. 

Pain shot through him, but that was nothing new - he was starving, on the verge of panicking, nearly hyperventilating. He’d been in pain for a while now; it had become a fact of life to him. The strong arms fought against Jaskier as he thrashed in his blind panic, and it was only when they finally let him go that he scrambled away, to the far edge of the cell, until his back hit the bucket of water. He didn’t open his eyes, finding it hurt too much in the sudden light, and he covered his ears, curling up there. 

The footsteps came closer, slower this time, yet Jaskier could sense the edge of anxiety on the movements - makes sense, he thought. They were in a burning building, after all. Though, why they’d want to save him while risking themselves was beyond him. 

“Jaskier,” came the deep rumble, and something in Jaskier knew that voice. But - no, this couldn’t be real. This was like - it was so similar to another time he’d been kidnapped. Some bandits, a dark cell, a burning building, the Witcher he didn’t know anymore coming to rescue him just like this. This had to be a dream. Nilfgaard was fucking with him. 

He shook his head and curled up further. He was so tired of this, these  _ dreams  _ of things he’d been through, all the pain and hurt. Fringilla was effectively disillusioning him, ripping away all optimism he may have had about the world with cold, clean efficiency. He just wanted it all to  _ stop.  _

Jaskier felt the tears coming on, and he didn’t stop them. He started shaking, silently crying - he’d stopped talking around day twenty-eight. What was the point of talking or singing, anyway, when all it got him was a sore throat. No one cared about his thoughts or opinions anymore. 

This time, he didn’t fight against the arms that picked him up, even curled into the broad, armored chest that he found his body pressed against. He inhaled the scent of leather and sword oil and blood, and somewhere deep in him felt safe, like he knew this person wouldn’t hurt him. 

_ If only I knew his name,  _ he thought before he shook weakly one last time and fell into unconsciousness. 

-0-0-0-

“What did they do to him?”

Jaskier was on something soft when he woke up, and there was talking around him. There were  _ people  _ around him, too, standing around his-

His bed?

He pushed himself up without opening his eyes, suddenly panicking as the memories came back. He had been taken from Nilfgaard, taken from his only shot at relative freedom, and now he was going to be taken and tortured by whoever else wanted information from him. The same vicious fucking cycle, he just wanted  _ out.  _ They already broke him, what more did they want? What more could anyone take from him now?

Hands came to rest in his hair, and Jaskier realized he had fallen back onto the bed and was panicking, he couldn’t breathe. The hand went back and forth, threading through his hair roughly but gently, and a voice that something locked away deep in Jaskier found soothing came with it. 

“In, out. Breathe, Jaskier. In, out.”

He couldn’t help but follow the instructions, slowly dragging his breathing and his heart rate down until he could slowly open his eyes, adjusting to the light and the noise. It was a shock to his body from spending so long in utter darkness - but, he was still in the darkness. This was a dream, brought on by Nilfgaard. Fucking with his head, as always. 

_ Huh.  _ This was a different dream than Fringilla had ever given him, he thought as he looked around at the small, sparsely furnished cabin they were in. And, Fringilla had never allowed him to get to the actual escape when she made him relive his kidnappings and various tortures. She usually cut it off when he thought he was out, only to find himself back in the cold darkness of the Nilfgaardian cell. It was a brutally effective method of making him lose hope, he had to give her that. 

There was a Witcher right next to him, someone that seemed familiar, and somehow that didn’t strike fear into him like it should’ve. Well, he always had terrible self-preservation instincts. The sorceress with violet eyes standing near a wooden table didn’t strike fear into him, either, though they both looked as if they could snap him in half. 

Maybe Fringilla was ripping away his hope by giving him entirely new scenarios. It wasn’t necessary, he thought. They’d already broken him; she was wasting her energy. 

“Jaskier?”

That was the Witcher. He turned his gaze on him, staring into golden eyes and white hair and a face he should’ve recognized but really didn’t. He commended his past self, though, for managing to become friends with such a handsome man. Or, whatever they were. He didn’t care for deciphering the general feeling of  _ safe  _ that the Witcher gave him, underlaid by the faint needling of heartbreak. 

He didn’t say anything, either. Fringilla had taught him he needed to be quiet. No one cared about his thoughts and opinions anymore, and whatever Fringilla needed from him she could simply rip from his mind anyway. So could the violet-eyed sorceress, too, he figured. His voice wasn’t necessary - not that he wanted to talk, anyway. Thinking about talking and singing, being so loud and carefree, made something in him shrink away in fear and anger. He’d been so  _ careless  _ about others' feelings before, he hadn’t known just how to be quiet and good for them so he wasn’t annoying and a burden. 

“Jaskier? Can you hear me?”

He gave a soft hum and closed his eyes. That was all they needed. The darkness was better, anyway, softer and easier. Much less to think about in the darkness - he could already feel sleep tugging at him once again. 

His eyes flew open when there was a sharp pain in his side, and the sorceress was standing next to the Witcher. Her violet eyes burned, but they were also soft, holding compassion and sympathy and-

Jaskier didn’t want to think about that. It wasn’t his place to figure out others’ feelings - he was there only to give information and do what they’d like with. Something in him still rebelled at that idea, pounded against the door he’d locked it behind, but Jaskier paid no mind to it. It was locked away for a reason. 

“Jaskier,” the sorceress said sharply, and he resisted the urge to sigh. Of course he wouldn’t be allowed to sleep. 

The Witcher looked concerned. “What did they do? He’s not talking.”

The sorceress’s attention turned to the Witcher and Jaskier closed his eyes again, listening to their conversation in the background of the fuzziness of his head. 

“I don’t know. He doesn’t seem to recognize us.”

There it was again, that recognition. Both of them seemed familiar, but their names and the memories of them were behind that locked door, and opening that locked door was too difficult. It would make it worse for him - he remembered fighting when that door was open, being hurt, screaming, unimaginable pain ripping through him. 

It was better to keep the door closed. 

“Can you fix him?”

Jaskier wanted to laugh.  _ Fix  _ him. As if he needed fixing. He had broken for them, just like they wanted. He didn’t need to be fixed. 

“I’m not sure. Fringilla’s magic is powerful. She could have done any number of things to him and we’d never know unless I can get to his memories.”

These two were weird, Jaskier thought distantly. Acting as if getting to his memories was so difficult, when he knew she could just rip them from him with a flick of her fingers. She seemed to know Fringilla, she must know that Jaskier was theirs to do what they’d like with. It’s not like he had the power to defy them, anyway. His defiance was behind that locked door with the rest of his memories, and he wasn’t planning on opening it anytime soon. 

“Jaskier,” the sorceress said. He opened his eyes reluctantly and looked at her. “Can I go through your memories?”

He hummed again in affirmation and returned his gaze to the ceiling, studying the wood of the rafters and the beams crossing above him, bracing for the pain of having his memories searched through. The sorceress shared a worried look with the Witcher that Jaskier still didn’t understand, before two fingers landed on his forehead and the cold, icy feeling of magic washed over him. 

The sorceress’s touch was…  _ gentle.  _ There was none of the pain ripping through him that Fringilla had given him, he didn’t so much as whimper as he felt he’d magic poke and prod at his mind. He did twitch, though, he flinched and tensed up despite himself. 

The magic poked at the locked door and Jaskier gave a full-body flinch, jerking violently away, eyes widening as he shook his head. He felt her magic retreat instantly, and she gave a small gasp when she saw his visceral reaction. 

“Okay, okay,” she said soothingly, hands put up placatingly. “I won’t go there.”

Jaskier relaxed, though he was still wary, and the Witcher looked at her. “Go where? What did you see?”

The sorceress’s face fell, eyes grave and sad. 

“That’s the thing. I found nothing.”

-0-0-0-

“Nothing?”

Geralt frowned. He wanted to hit something, kill something. Jaskier had left him on the mountain, and now he was here after being tortured by Nilfgaard, and it was all his fucking fault for yelling at him on that damned mountain. 

Yennefer shrugged. “I didn’t find anything. He doesn’t have memories of us, or anything really. It’s just… cold and dark in there.”

Geralt sighed and resisted the strong urge to hit something right then and there. “What the fuck, Yen? How are we supposed to fix this?”

Yennefer looked at Jaskier, who had his eyes closed again and was unnaturally silent, like he had been since they found him in that cell. “I’d say he was guarding against his feelings.”

“What does that mean?”

She sighed and returned her gaze to Geralt’s worried golden eyes. “It’s a defense mechanism. People who are excessively tortured retreat into themselves. For some, it’s to prevent them from saying anything - if they don’t remember, they’re not useful. For Jaskier… I think it’s because of his feelings.”

Geralt stayed silent, though Yennefer could see the guilt flood his eyes, and she fixed him with a firm look. “What did you say to him on that mountain?”

He glanced down. “I told him… I wanted him gone.”

Yennefer watched him, but he didn’t continue and she didn’t push, though she knew there was more to it than that. She sighed. “Your bard has always felt too much. Far more than other people. Other people may be sad, but Jaskier is devastated, or lonely. If he’s happy, he’s not just happy. He’s ecstatic, joyful. You’ve seen him when he’s happy and you’ve seen him when he’s not. There’s a very visible difference there.”

“So whatever is said to him, or whatever he says himself, he feels on a far deeper level than anyone else I’ve known. And, I suppose, in that cell, he didn’t have anything to defend against his emotions, so he locked them away completely. Everything that made him feel pain was locked away, and everything that made him feel joy, or anger, or despair, was dragged with it too. We went with the rest of his memories.”

Geralt sighed. “ _ Fuck.” _

Yennefer nodded. “The Jaskier we know isn’t gone, just buried. And I can’t pull him out with magic.”

Geralt frowned. “Why not?”

“You saw him flinch, right? That’s when I touched the wall his memories were behind. He’s the one who locked away his own memories; I can’t just undo another mage’s magic here. It would be extremely painful, and also risky, to try to force him to open the door. We have to make him  _ want  _ to open it.”

Geralt deflated and groaned. “And how do we do that?”

Now Yennefer smirked, and Geralt knew he wasn’t going to like this. “Be nice to him. Treat him as a friend, not as someone you tolerate.”

Geralt could sense the bard’s breathing had evened out into sleep. “I don’t  _ tolerate  _ him,” he said defensively as Yennefer walked to the other table. 

“You have to show him that,” she replied.

Geralt frowned harder, but he looked at Jaskier laying on the bed, face peaceful in sleep, and knew he was going to do it. He’d do more things than he’d like to admit for Jaskier. 

“Fuck.”

“Swearing won’t heal him, Geralt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because i’m paranoid that people won’t understand how jaskier broke, i’m going to explain it here. next chapter i’ll explain why he won’t come back because this kinda turned into an essay 😅
> 
> the whole premise of the fic is that jaskier feels too much. he could be completely overwhelmed and controlled by his emotions, or he could cope with them, like he does normally. nilfgaard found out that emotions were his weakness when fringilla rifled through his mind, hence the reliving memories, especially the most recent, freshest, deepest wound - the mountain.
> 
> without coping mechanisms, without light or human contact or even food, jaskier had no defense against his emotions. nothing distracted him from thinking about what geralt said, thinking about everything in his life that someone said he was annoying or too much, or left him because of it. so his memories brought on emotions and he had no defense against them.
> 
> so he locked away his memories, for two reasons. one, memories means that he fights for something - getting out of nilfgaard, getting back to geralt, etc. fighting means nilfgaard hurts him more, and solitary confinement is harsh torture. so no memories means not remembering what he’s fighting for, means no fighting, means no pain. and two, memories means he feels everything the memories brought on, and no memories means not as many feelings, like numbing a wound, hence no pain.


	3. Chapter 3

Jaskier woke up yet again, and this time he noticed the hunger pains stabbing at his stomach - mainly because of the smell of warm bread coming from next to him. He looked over to his right, and yeah, there was a plate of warm bread and a glass of ice water sitting on the rough wood of the table next to his bed. It made his mouth water just looking at it; he picked up the plate and took a bite quickly, almost moaning when he tasted it. 

“Don’t eat too quickly.”

Jaskier looked up to see the sorceress sitting in a chair several feet away from his bed, one eyebrow raised and her legs crossed beneath her elegant black dress. Her violet eyes bored into his, much too similar to the way Fringilla looked at him like he was a bug pinned on a board, making him unsettled. He gave a short nod, though, taking her advice and slowing down despite how much he wanted to devour the bread. 

He was halfway through the water when the door burst open and a blur of blue came bouncing in, followed by the Witcher in his black armor. The blue, he found out when she finally slowed down, was a girl, around 12 years old, he thought, with peculiar white-blonde hair. 

“Yennefer!” she said, and her voice struck something deeper inside Jaskier. She seemed familiar too - she gave him the feeling of sitting beside a fireplace, singing softly. Memories of her were even older than memories of the Witcher and the sorceress, but he had no inclination whatsoever to unlock the door for either. 

The girl went over to the sorceress, who he assumed was Yennefer, and wrapped her arms around her. Yennefer returned the hug, and the girl soon pulled back. There was a smile on Yennefer’s face, which brought a strange sense of surprise to Jaskier. Somehow, he knew that Yennefer didn’t smile often. 

“How was hunting?” she asked. 

The girl frowned. “Didn’t go well. Geralt kept scaring off all the prey,” she said teasingly, throwing a glance over her shoulder to the Witcher. 

The Witcher - _Geralt_ , Jaskier assumed, and the name brought on a whole slew of distant emotions and images he didn’t even know he had for the name - came up behind the girl. “You’re the one who jumped on my back while stalking a deer.”

The girl rolled her eyes. “You’re no fun, Geralt.”

Yennefer smirked and looked up at Geralt, who rolled his eyes and grunted before walking to the other side of the cabin. 

The girl suddenly noticed Jaskier, and a wide grin broke out on her face. “Jaskier? You played at my grandmother’s court!”

Yennefer’s smirk faded, Geralt spun quickly around, and Jaskier’s eyes widened. He felt- he could remember, just a flash of an image, sitting by a fireplace with green eyes looking up at him, fingers dancing over lute strings, a voice - _his_ voice - ringing softly in the air. Jaskier shut his eyes tightly, his whole body going taut like a bowstring. The darkness had become quite his friend lately, and in the darkness he couldn’t remember anything, in the darkness he didn’t have to speak or sing or - or whatever he did before Nilfgaard. 

“Ciri, don’t bother him,” he heard distantly from the sorceress - he didn’t want to know her name anymore, it was too familiar and he wasn’t- he didn’t want that- he had been _safe_ before all this, he had broken for Nilfgaard and he knew what they wanted-

“In, out. Jaskier. In. Out,” the Witcher’s rumble came from nearby, louder than the girl’s questions as the sorceress led her away, and he felt the Witcher’s hand run through his hair in the same rhythm he told him to breathe. Jaskier found himself following the orders - _dammit_ , even the Witcher’s fucking voice soothed him, even on the other side of a locked door he himself put up. He couldn’t escape the memories threatening to break through, even though it was _so much easier_ to just follow what Nilfgaard wanted, and not fight, and not be in pain-

He shook on the bed, silent tears running down his face, and didn’t protest as the Witcher pulled him into his arms and sat on the bed with Jaskier curled up in his lap. He was saying something, but Jaskier didn’t really care for what he was saying, he felt _safe_ like he’d never been before, something from _before_ that made him feel so cared for in the Witcher’s arms. Jaskier didn’t have the strength to fight against it. 

It was at least an hour before Yennefer and the girl - _Ciri_ , Jaskier remembered - returned to the cabin, and by that time Jaskier had stopped crying and was simply curled up with Geralt’s arms around him, blankly studying the wood grain of the wall. 

_Jaskier?_

He flinched violently at hearing the sorceress’s voice in his mind, and Geralt’s arms tightened in surprise around him, but his answer came easily and automatically. Fringilla had always plunged him into another dream sequence when he refused to respond. 

_Yes?_

Geralt’s voice came from above him. “Yennefer? What are you doing to him?”

_Why did you flinch?_

“I’m talking to him,” she said shortly. 

Jaskier relaxed slightly. This was easy, this was good. She was asking questions; this was what he had broken for. He wanted to give them the information they wanted from him, so he wouldn’t be put back in that dark cell. 

_Fringilla talked to me in my mind too. Constantly._

_What did she say?_

Jaskier shivered. Geralt’s voice was angrier now. “Yennefer, stop. He doesn’t like whatever magic you’re working on him.”

Yennefer’s voice came distantly, a result of her focus on Jaskier as she spoke to him. “He’s fine. It’s the only way he’ll talk to us.”

Well, she got that right, Jaskier thought. He didn’t want to use his voice - his voice was a product of the memories beyond that door, and Fringilla had taught him that he was a burden in the past. Being quiet was better for everyone. 

_She said things about the Witc- Geralt. About Geralt._ Jaskier paused. He didn’t want to go into specifics, because the details were about his past memories and he didn’t want those. He had been fighting against those for so long, it would be stupid to come back now when he had tried so hard to break already. 

He didn’t continue, and Yennefer’s voice was slightly disappointed when it echoed in his mind next. _Okay. How much did she talk to you?_

Now he shuddered, and Geralt’s growl above him was low and angry. Jaskier imagined him giving one of his signature-

No. Not one of his signature glares, because Jaskier didn’t know about that. He _didn’t_ know about the way Geralt’s golden eyes flared with anger at Yennefer specifically. That was not something he knew anymore. That was for the old Jaskier, the one who was selfish and annoying and didn’t know his place. 

“Calm down, Geralt. He’s fine,” Yennefer said. 

“You’re hurting him!”

Jaskier could sense her eye-roll as she replied. “Nothing he hasn’t already taken. I’m much better than Fringilla, trust me. And I’m only asking questions.”

Geralt growled again, but went silent, and then Jaskier replied. _All the time. For hours on end. When I didn’t respond, she’d force me to dream and relive my past memories. She’d make me relive them anyway._

_What memories?_

Jaskier went silent, freezing up, and Geralt growled yet again, his tone warning. “Yennefer.”

The sorceress leaned back in her chair, and Jaskier felt her magic retreat from his mind. “Fine, fine. I won’t ask anything else.”

Geralt grunted. “Good.”

Ciri’s voice came suddenly - Jaskier had forgotten she was there. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He was hurt by Nilfgaard,” Yennefer replied. Jaskier wanted to laugh, something bitter and spiteful rising in his throat - he wasn’t just _hurt_ by Nilfgaard. He was tortured, to the point that he broke, and locked all of his memories away. Hurt didn’t begin to describe it. 

Ciri made a soft noise. “How badly? Is he okay?”

Jaskier could feel Yennefer’s eyes turn to him, and he shifted. He didn’t like the attention. “He was hurt very badly. We don’t know if he’s okay.”

Jaskier sat up, pushing out of Geralt’s arms, and the Witcher made a surprised noise, but let him go. He slid off the bed and started walking to the door - he was tired of getting so much attention after having none for so long. It made him anxious, set something restless fluttering in him. 

_Bathroom_ , he thought at Yennefer, and felt the faint wisp of her magic in acknowledgment before he left, letting the door slam behind him. 

He walked forward, into the forest, and then stopped. He didn’t know why he’d come out here. All he wanted was to get away from the attention, get away from the eyes of everyone in the room. He was a bug pinned to a board, like always. An experiment, a curiosity for them to look at. 

Jaskier walked listlessly into the forest, finding a large tree and sitting against it. He stared blankly at the grass and plants in front of him. What was he supposed to do now? He wanted to leave. Leave, and be anywhere but here. Fuck, that dark cell was more of a comfort now than the constant attentions of people he didn’t know, didn’t want to know, people who tried to drag up the memories he worked so hard to bury. There was a _reason_ he buried those memories, and for this - this _Witcher_ , and a _sorceress_ , to try to drag them up-

Jaskier buried his head in his knees and closed his eyes. The darkness welcomed him, like an old friend, and Jaskier was all too happy to sink into it. 

-0-0-0-

“Jaskier?”

He opened his eyes at the rumbling voice, sighing. The Witcher, here to drag him back, here to drag up his memories, here to bring back someone Jaskier hated. Geralt didn’t care about Jaskier now, he thought. He cared about the Jaskier he knew, the Jaskier who sang and spoke and was loud and selfish and- and _annoying_ and a _burden_. Jaskier just wanted to be left alone, before they regretted bringing him back and tried to break him again. 

He looked up, blinking against the light, and met concerned golden eyes looking down on him. Something in Jaskier couldn’t fight against that look, and that something was what allowed Geralt to pick Jaskier up and carry him back to the cabin. Jaskier made a soft noise, displeased with the world, but he figured this wasn’t so bad - he curled into Geralt’s chest, burying his face into the armor. The darkness there was somehow warmer, somehow _safe_ , and smelled strongly like leather and sword oil. 

They got back to the cabin and Jaskier had looped his arms around Geralt’s neck. He clung tighter when Geralt tried to put him down, and heard Yennefer’s laugh ring out from his right. 

He wanted to stay with Geralt, stay caged in his strong arms. It reminded him of his confinement, but it wasn’t so cold. It was more comforting, especially with the scent of leather in his nose, and he didn’t know how to communicate it. 

_Yennefer_ , he thought. There was no response for several seconds, and he tried again. _**Yennefer**_.

Geralt was sitting in his bed now, and Jaskier curled up on his lap, head resting against his chest and arms looped around his neck. Geralt removed his arms from Jaskier and he made a discontented noise. _Dammit, Yennefer._

Now her magic brushed against his mind. _What?_

_Tell him to- to hold me. Tightly. Please._

Yennefer made a surprised noise, and Jaskier could imagine her eyebrow raise. “He wants you to hold him tightly, Geralt,” she said reluctantly. 

He felt Geralt’s arms slowly wrap back around him, which was- good, but it was too freeing. He squirmed slightly and Geralt’s arms fell away instantly, like he’d been burned- he sighed. _Yennefer. I want him to cage me. I don’t want to move, or see, or- any of this. Pin me down if he has to. Just don’t let me go._

Another soft, surprised noise. “Geralt.”

“What is it?” His voice was concerned, and Jaskier had the thought that he would have to give up the safe feeling of Geralt’s arms in order to get what he wanted. A corner would do, he supposed. Maybe there were ropes somewhere, and a blindfold. He just didn’t want to move, the world was too much right now and he thought he’d go insane if he had to keep being in control. It was easy with Nilfgaard, he wasn’t in control and he knew what they wanted. 

“He wants you to pin him down. Cage him, he said. He doesn’t want to move, or see,” Yennefer said, and Jaskier felt Geralt tense above him. He sighed - he wouldn’t be able to get what he wanted within the safety of Geralt’s arms. 

_Tie me up then, Yen. He won’t do it. Just ropes and a blindfold, please._

He didn’t know how the nickname slipped out, but it seemed familiar to him, though strange in his voice, as if he’d only ever heard someone else call her that. He didn’t want to analyze that now, though - the whole point of this was losing control. 

And, now he felt Geralt’s arms wrapping around him again, but this time they tightened and Jaskier squirmed. He didn’t budge, Jaskier couldn’t move much with the way Geralt’s legs bracketed his as they were pulled up against his body, his arms pinned Jaskier’s to his sides, and finally he relaxed. He turned his head into Geralt’s armor, inhaling the scent of leather and sword oil and getting the overwhelming feeling of safety from the warm darkness. 

He hummed softly, feeling his mind go blank finally, and closed his eyes. This was preferable, he thought distantly. Not being in control, not being able to move, or see. It settled something restless in Jaskier, something that had awoken ever since he broke for Nilfgaard. 

He didn’t know how long he was there, but there was a pleasant buzzing in his mind by the time Geralt shifted and disturbed the trance he was in. He made a soft noise of displeasure, frowning as Geralt tried pushing him off gently. 

He tried to move, to wrap himself around the Witcher, but whatever headspace he was in had made his limbs lazy and he couldn’t do anything more than whine. Geralt grunted as he carefully extracted himself and let Jaskier lean against the pillow, light burning behind his eyelids and altogether too free for his comfort. 

_Yennnneefer_ , he thought sleepily. _Noooo_ …

Geralt’s footsteps were quiet, but the wood floor creaked and the door slammed as he left wordlessly. Jaskier flinched at the loud noise, and frowned, feeling his awareness slowly return to him against his will. _Yennefer, can you… tie me up and blindfold?_

There was a long pause, though her magic brushed against his mind, and Jaskier didn’t think she would accept, but her voice, though reluctant, came to his mind. _Fine. But we won’t need ropes._

 _Use them_ , he thought instantly. _They feel more real. I don’t know what’s real all the time._

Somewhere along the way, he’d decided this wasn’t a dream, but he could never be sure.

Another long pause. _Fine_. 

Jaskier curled up in the fetal position, trying to stop his awareness from coming back to him. He was so close to falling back into that blissful darkness, so close to escaping from the world and his memories and everything. Jaskier would live in that darkness if he could, live where only Nilfgaard needed him and he wasn’t in control, he didn’t have to make the decisions. 

Minutes later, he felt magic ghost against his skin, and Yennefer’s presence behind him. “I’m going to need you to take off your clothes if you want this to work properly.”

Jaskier hummed. He couldn’t care either way - he just wanted to fall again. Yennefer took it as affirmation and cold air suddenly blew across his bare skin. Jaskier thought it felt a lot like the cold of his cell. 

Magic skimmed his skin, followed by the ropes curling around him, and Jaskier sighed softly, feeling them tighten and pin him in the position he was in. He pushed against them once Yennefer finished, relishing in the slight pain that brought, telling him it wasn’t a dream. This was real, and as the blindfold settled over his eyes and tied around his head, he could already feel himself sinking into that pleasant daze. 

Jaskier relaxed into the bed, once Yennefer pulled the blanket over him, and let himself fall. 

-0-0-0-

Geralt wanted to hit something. 

He had just- he’d just basically _pinned_ Jaskier down because the damn bard wanted it, and he was so- so traumatized and _broken_ by whatever Nilfgaard had done to him that being forced to stay in one position was more comforting than being free. Geralt had certainly heard of submitting like that, but that was for sexual pleasure, not because- because whatever fucked up reason made it okay for Geralt to immobilize Jaskier like that. 

And the way he had just _sunk_ into it, as if he trusted him when he didn’t even recognize him, it unsettled something in Geralt. The whole situation was so wrong, but Geralt couldn’t do anything to fix it, not immediately, and that was what angered him most. He wanted to fix it, wanted Jaskier to see that what he was doing to him wasn’t okay. Fuck, what he was doing to himself wasn’t okay. 

He growled and pushed himself off the wall, turning and opening the door, letting it slam behind him as he walked in. Yennefer gave him a sharp, reproachful look, her violet eyes moving to Jaskier, who was laying still beneath the blankets, breathing and heart rate slow and even. 

Geralt frowned, seeing the hint of something black beneath the blankets, and he walked forward, gently pulling aside the blankets - and froze. 

Jaskier didn’t have clothes on, black ropes crisscrossed his skin, and Geralt could see the red marks they left in the creamy color. Some part of Geralt pulsed with want - _fuck_ , he’d wanted the bard for so long, and this was the worst kind of temptation. He wanted to touch, and take - and, he realized with horror, Jaskier wouldn’t even refuse him in his current state. 

The other part pulsed with anger, and he set the blanket back down over Jaskier before turning to Yennefer, golden eyes ablaze with silent fury. 

Her voice entered his mind, harsh. _He wanted it. Don’t blame me. You’re the one who left, so he asked me._

Geralt resisted the growl rising in his throat, and simply turned and followed the close scent of Ciri, walking outside and finding her sitting against a tree, reading. He needed to talk to her, do something that didn’t remind him of the torture Jaskier had endured at the hands of Nilfgaard, because he’d yelled at him on that damned mountain. 

He sat down next to Ciri, who looked up at him as he approached. “What are you reading?”

Ciri grinned. “Yennefer gave me a book on magic and alchemy. It’s really interesting. Did you know that alchemy could be used to make explosive potions?”

Geralt frowned. Yennefer was not helping with the task of teaching Ciri; the girl caused enough mischief as it was and giving her a book on how to make explosive potions was not the way to rein her in. He hoped she didn’t use the knowledge in that book; he couldn’t take it away from her or she’d know that it was something he didn’t want her to do, which would only make her more inclined to do it. 

He hummed in response, mentally planning to talk to Yennefer about this, and Ciri’s grin faded. She looked at Geralt with emerald eyes that had far too much knowledge in them - eyes that had seen too much for her age. “Geralt, will Jaskier get better? And don’t lie. I want to know the truth. What really happened to him? Why doesn’t he remember me, or you?”

Geralt sighed. Ciri was far too smart for her own good; there was no way he was getting out of this one. Figures, he went to her to get away from the reminder of what he’d just had to do to Jaskier because of the torture, and now he was being asked about it. 

“Nilfgaard took him, and they hurt him a lot,” he said carefully. He didn’t want to reveal too much; his job was to raise Ciri as a child in a safe, caring environment, not add on to the horrors she’d witnessed. “He locked away his memories so they couldn’t hurt him with them.”

Ciri frowned, glancing down, face thoughtful. “He said he wanted to be held tightly. I heard Yennefer say it. Why?”

Now Geralt frowned, again. He didn’t know how Ciri heard that, but he supposed Yennefer had told her she could read outside just before he came in with Jaskier. That would be the only way she’d have known - and Geralt really wished she hadn’t. This was a mess, all of it, and explaining things to Ciri in a simpler, yet still comprehensive manner, was difficult. 

“They kept him in a dark cell, and he got used to it.”

He turned to Ciri, now serious, and she looked up at him, sensing the change in mood and listening to what he said. “Ciri, the Jaskier you know isn’t there right now,” he said firmly, but softly. “Whatever he did, he doesn’t remember any of it. You can’t be too loud, or you’ll scare him,” he continued, as gently as he could tell a kid that the bard who’d probably played songs to her when she was younger didn’t remember her at all, and was actually quite traumatized. “He won’t talk to you, not until we get him to bring his memories back. Be nice to him.”

Ciri nodded and leaned back against the tree, beginning to shred a leaf in her fingers. “His singing was nice,” she said sadly. “He used to come up to me at banquets and pull me out onto the dance floor, and we’d dance and he’d sing. He let me sing, once. It was terrible, but he smiled and told me it was great, and I didn’t really care whether it was terrible then. He didn’t care about my crown, didn’t treat me like I was fragile.”

Geralt leaned himself back against the tree, right next to Ciri. “He was something,” he admitted quietly. 

_If only we can get him back_ , he thought to himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, the reason why he won’t come back is why he broke. he broke to get rid of pain, so why would he want to come back after that? he’s also scared that they’ll regret it and try to break him again, which will be a whole lot more unnecessary pain if he never comes back in the first place.


	4. Chapter 4

Jaskier woke up from the sleep he didn’t even know he’d fallen into, and he couldn’t feel the press of ropes against his skin, or the blindfold against his eyes. 

He unfolded from his position, somehow not panicking at the sudden freedom, stretching his legs and arching, and slowly opened his eyes, adjusting to the light. The cabin was dark, however - there was no light to be adjusted to. He could hear the even breathing of what he assumed was Ciri, because somehow he knew Yennefer didn’t breathe that loudly after being on the run from Nilfgaard for months, in danger nearly constantly. He didn’t question how he knew it, he didn’t realize he even knew it - he just did. 

But he was still vigilant in keeping himself in the dark about Geralt. Those memories would not slip through, they brought on too many feelings and it was easier to stay oblivious before he remembered and started fighting again. Fighting was difficult, fighting hurt him and made others hurt him and Jaskier didn’t want that. 

He rolled to his other side, and hit a hard wall of muscle. Geralt was laying in the bed with him, almost falling off of it with the way he was trying to keep himself apart from Jaskier. Jaskier remembered the confining darkness of his arms, the warmth even as he was held in place - and then he remembered how he had left so suddenly, without a word or a comfort, and he had had to ask Yennefer to get what he wanted. 

He frowned, rolling over and sitting up on the edge of the bed, legs hanging down. There was something _off_ now, he felt wrong, like there was something missing. He didn’t know what it was, but it didn’t hesitate to make itself known, making his leg bounce and his eyes dart around, unseeing in the darkness. 

The darkness used to be comforting. He knew that, if he didn’t feel so _wrong_ right now, he’d relish the way he couldn’t see a thing, and he’d probably roll over and press himself against the safety of Geralt’s shirt, and the warm darkness there. 

He didn’t know what had changed so suddenly, but it made him restless and he didn’t like it at all. He picked up the pants Yennefer had magicked onto the floor when he had asked her to tie him up, and pulled them and the shirt on before standing up as quietly as possible. He paused, listening to Geralt, but the Witcher didn’t move, and he let out a quiet, controlled breath. 

Jaskier walked carefully forward, using the map of the small cabin he’d formed in his mind, and found the door, slowly turning the knob and closing it silently behind him - miraculously without waking up any of the occupants inside. The moonlight glinted off of the trees, bathing everything in silver, and for some reason Jaskier found the comfort in the fact he _could_ see something, rather than that he couldn’t. 

And, the memories were tugging at his mind, begging to be let out. 

Jaskier already knew more about Yennefer than he’d like. Memories of her were slipping through the cracks, not tied to any feeling at all, but still slipping. The way her eyebrow raised condescendingly, the way they were not quite friends but not quite enemies, her smile which betrayed nothing and the way he’d imagined her fucking him - before… before something he didn’t remember. Something that involved Geralt. 

Jaskier slid down to lean against the wall of the cabin, staring up at the dark sky scattered with stars, and flinched when a shadow came over him and Yennefer was suddenly there. She’d appeared without him noticing, like she was a ghost. 

“Can’t sleep?”

He hummed. Someday, he thought, maybe he’d talk. Sing, even. Not now, though. He didn’t want to talk, or sing, but the past Jaskier was begging to be let out and he wasn’t sure if he could fight him. Especially with the objects of his affections and so many of his best memories around him constantly, talking to him, making him remember. 

“A few hours ago you were asking to be in complete darkness. Now you’re seeking out the moonlight?” Yennefer asked, not accusatory or judgmental. Neutral, and it gave Jaskier the feeling that he had the choice of whether to answer it or not. The freedom… wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be. 

_I’m… remembering,_ he thought, and felt the resulting brush of her magic against his mind to tell him that she’d heard him. 

“How much are you remembering?”

_Your condescending eyebrow raise,_ he thought, and she laughed softly. _We were… not enemies, but not friends?_

Yennefer nodded. “I wouldn’t wish this on you, Jaskier. You’re not my favorite person, but this…”

She went quiet, shaking her head slightly, and Jaskier didn’t answer. They both fell into a comfortable silence, neither of them keeping track of the time. 

_Why am I remembering you and not Geralt?_ he asked suddenly, what felt like several hours later. Her magic had been drifting near his mind the entire time; he knew she heard him. _The old Jaskier… the one Geralt cares about, he cared about Geralt too. You and I weren’t friends like I was with Geralt._

Jaskier did remember the feeling of safety he got when he was with Geralt, the deeper feeling that he got and didn’t want to spend the time analyzing, though it was both warm and painful at the same time. He knew he had a closer connection with Geralt than he did with Yennefer - so why were memories of her slipping through and not Geralt?

Yennefer leaned her head back against the wall. “You locked away your memories because they made you feel too much,” she said, both question and statement. Jaskier nodded and she continued. “I have less emotional ties to you than Geralt does. Memories of me don’t bring up as many feelings that memories of Geralt do, so you’re not fighting as hard against them.”

Jaskier frowned. He wanted to fight against all of them, he didn’t want any memories to come through. But, he supposed if he was being forced to drag the memories back up, Yennefer was right. She didn’t give him as much emotional turmoil as Geralt did. Fuck, even just _thinking_ of the name brought on a whole slew of emotions, ones that were too tangled and painful for him to sort through, so he simply put it on the back burner. 

He closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted again, but he didn’t want to face the darkness inside. For once, the darkness wasn’t comforting at all. Something, some part of the locked door, had broken in him, and he was being slowly brought back to himself whether he liked it or not. And, that started with the dark, which had suddenly become suffocating rather than welcoming, cold rather than warm. 

Yennefer stood up. “You’re about to fall asleep. Let’s go inside.”

Jaskier hummed. _No. Inside is dark._

He got a laugh in return. “I’ll give you a light.”

_Fine,_ he thought reluctantly. He opened his eyes and pushed himself up, standing up and following Yennefer inside the cabin, where she flicked her fingers and a soft glowing light appeared over his bed. 

He frowned at it, still restless and anxious, but he obliged when she gave him a sharp glare and slid into his bed. Turned out, the light above his head was rather comforting against the shadows, and Jaskier found himself sinking into sleep faster than he thought he would, subconsciously rolling to curl into Geralt. 

-0-0-0-

Jaskier woke to a soft, amused rumble from Geralt, vibrating through his chest and against Jaskier’s ear where it had been pressed against him. He hummed and tightened his arm around Geralt, not realizing what he was doing until Geralt tensed and Jaskier pulled away like he’d been burned, eyes wide. 

That was- far too close for comfort. Jaskier could feel his memories, could sense them on the edge of remembering and he hated it. Something like needles poked at his skin when he looked at Geralt, a feeling he hadn’t felt for a long time because he _locked away the memories that gave him it._

Jaskier frowned and pushed himself off the bed, not looking at Geralt’s puzzled golden gaze. His eyes filled with something too close to hurt for Jaskier to be comfortable, before they shuttered and all expression fled, replaced by a neutral mask. He walked to the door and out without saying a word, without looking at the Witcher he knew too well laying in the bed. 

He slid down against the wall as soon as he got out, burying his head in his knees and fighting away the panic threatening to overtake him. He wasn’t supposed to remember Geralt. None of this was supposed to happen, he wasn’t supposed to _be here._ If Nilfgaard had just. Taken the information they wanted from him, did with him what they would, instead of- of being _rescued_ and forced to remember things he didn’t want to. It would’ve all been better. 

Slowly, he dragged his breathing down and darkness didn’t dance at the edges of his vision, he stopped shaking and he raised his head from where it was buried in his knees. The sun was rising above the trees, casting everything in golden light, like honey. 

_Like honey._ Jaskier’s breath caught - the words were. Familiar. They were _poetry_ \- poetry that the old Jaskier wrote, poetry that the old Jaskier sung. He sighed and stood up abruptly, taking his eyes off of the rising sun, not thinking about honey or gold or a mountain with a similar view, flashing briefly in his mind. 

He looked at the cabin - _quaint, like you’d find in fairytales with the wicked witch and the innocent girl,_ his mind supplied automatically - and ran one hand through his hair, tugging slightly and relishing in the pain. Pain, like Nilfgaard had brought. Pain like he was supposed to run away from, to get rid of. Not- not bring back, not look at a golden-eyed, white-haired Witcher and feel needles pricking him, not look at a violet-eyed sorceress and feel the surge of irritation he didn’t even _fucking remember where it came from._

He gave a soft growl of frustration. Everything was fucking poetry now, he thought like the old Jaskier and something in him wanted to sing it, too. Wanted to sing of the emerald green grass, sing of the amber eyes glowing in the night and moonlight glinting off of white hair. He wanted to be _annoying,_ like the old Jaskier. The one Fringilla had worked so hard to get rid of. 

Jaskier felt his breaths coming faster for a second time, could see his vision tunneling and his body shaking, but this time he couldn’t stop it. It was all too much, he was remembering too much too fast and now- now that _damned_ Witcher was beside him, _unfairly_ deep voice rumbling in his ear, so _fucking_ soothing no matter if he didn’t even remember him. It set off a new surge of irritation in Jaskier, and he wanted to curse, to rage and scream at the world for dragging him back to the pain his past memories brought. 

“Jaskier. In, out. Breathe.”

Of course, it was _Geralt,_ so Jaskier’s body was practically trained to follow the rumbling instructions, pulling his breath down, pulling his heart rate down and the world slowly returning to his view without black spots dancing at the edge of it. He shook - somehow, between the panic attack and Geralt, he’d started crying - and sank slowly down, feeling Geralt’s arms circle around him and attempt to pick him up before he hit the ground. 

Except, this time it wasn’t comforting. Jaskier thrashed, fought against Geralt’s arms until he let go, and he glared before running into the forest. He didn’t know where he was going, just that he wanted to be _away_ from the scent of leather and sword oil and the strong arms holding him and golden eyes, white hair, a deep voice. It was overwhelming, too much, too fast. 

Jaskier ran until his breaths were coming short and his legs were burning, and he stopped, leaning against a tree and breathing hard. He shut his eyes, feeling himself start shaking - again - and sunk slowly down against the bark until he hit the ground, a sob caught in his throat. 

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,_ **_fuck,_ **he thought to himself - and of course, there was the brush of magic against his mind telling him that Yennefer had heard him. His breath hitched and another sob rose in his throat, catching until he swallowed through it and thudded his head back against the tree bark, staring up at the sky through the leaves. 

_Blue sky,_ his mind told him, _with white clouds like cotton._ Jaskier couldn’t escape the poetry now, couldn’t escape the way he thought of the world, with the foolish optimism and way he saw some sort of beauty in everything before. The old him was pounding against the locked door, yelling and screaming and demanding to be let out. Jaskier didn’t know if he could hold him back - some small, hidden part of him didn’t want to. 

“Jaskier.”

He sighed, tilting his head slightly towards the feminine voice as Yennefer slid down to sit next to him. She stayed quiet - not demanding anything, not uncertain of what to do, not judging. It was a refreshing change of pace from Geralt, who, for all he wanted Jaskier to get better, didn’t quite know how to deal with him - both before and after. 

_What,_ he thought flatly. 

“Nothing. You don’t have to say or do anything. But I’m here,” she replied neutrally. Her magic wove around his mind, not waiting for a response but ready in case he did. 

And, he did. There was too much in Jaskier to keep in, he was feeling and remembering far too much to hold it all in. 

_I don’t know why I’m fighting so hard,_ he thought first. He paused. _I’m around you two, and I know the memories are going to come back whether I want them to or not. I know fighting against them is only going to make it harder and more painful when I do remember. But-_

He shook his head. Yennefer didn’t say anything, only resumed her companionable, unjudging silence. _They locked me in that dark cell for a month, Yen,_ he continued, the nickname slipping out again, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. _No food, no contact. Just a bucket of water, a cup, and a corner to piss in. It was freezing. Couldn’t see my hand in front of my face._

Somehow, he didn’t panic when he thought of it. There was this detached numbness to his thoughts, as if he hadn’t lived it. Sure, if someone tried shoving him into that cell again he’d kick and scream and fight against them with all that he had, but thinking about it only gave him a sense of detached neutrality and that was it. And, he knew he was supposed to have his memories back. His memories contained everything he fought for, they were why he kept fighting until he locked them away to save himself, but now he wanted to fight and he didn’t even remember what he was fighting for. 

_I don’t know,_ he finished. He didn’t know what he was going to say after that. He just didn’t know. 

“I can’t help you with your memories, Jaskier,” Yennefer said. “But we’re not against you.”

He sighed. _I know._

She stood up. “Let’s go inside.”

Jaskier closed his eyes for a moment, before opening them and standing up. _Okay._

-0-0-0-

Dinner that night was dried jerky and fruit. Jaskier sat in the chair at the table, Geralt on his right, Ciri on his left, and Yennefer across from him. The table was silent and Jaskier shifted in his seat from discomfort, glancing up at the three before glancing down. 

_“_ How was training today, Ciri?” Yennefer asked finally, sending a glare across at Geralt for making it so uncomfortably silent. 

“It was good,” she said simply, then paused. Her face was thoughtful, as if she was hesitating to say something, and she looked up suddenly, emerald eyes sharp and piercing, like when she was going to ask something and wouldn’t take no for an answer. “Tell me a story of the old days.”

Geralt frowned and Yennefer’s brow furrowed in puzzlement, but Jaskier watched them both smooth out their features and Yennefer respond first. “What story would you like us to tell?”

Ciri’s brow furrowed, and she turned her attention to Geralt. “Tell me about when you met Yen. I want you to tell it.”

Yennefer grinned into her drink - imagine when he got to the part where he walked into her hosting an orgy. _That_ was sure to be the most interesting part of the story, she was sure. Or, maybe the naked mayor. 

Geralt frowned, giving a quick glare at Yen - who was failing to hide her smile in her drink - and glancing at Jaskier before looking at Ciri. “I was hunting a djinn,” he said. 

Ciri grinned. “The ones that grant wishes?”

Geralt grunted in affirmation. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere but there, and Yennefer looked like she was having the time of her life watching him try to tell the story - minus the inappropriate parts. 

Geralt’s eyes flicked to Jaskier again, hesitating, and Jaskier suddenly didn’t like where this was going. “Someone-“ Geralt cut off and paused. “Someone was with me. I found the djinn and the amphora was opened accidentally. They thought they had the wishes. They made two wishes and I told them not to make a third one. I was the one with the wishes, and I wished for some peace without knowing it. I took them to Yennefer when the djinn misinterpreted my wish and decided to take their voice.”

Jaskier frowned. _Oh, and I suppose you’re just going to not mention the fact that you said my singing was like a fillingless pie,_ he thought sarcastically. 

Jaskier froze. Yennefer’s eyes snapped to him and he met them, realizing what he’d said. Geralt frowned, glancing between the two. “What?”

_Fuck._ Jaskier stood up from the table abruptly. Ciri’s brow furrowed and she looked between the three. “What’s happening? Jaskier?”

He shook his head and turned, walking out the door. Yennefer followed; he flinched when the door slammed behind her and she stopped a few steps away from him, watching him carefully. Surprisingly, he wasn’t panicking- but bits and pieces were coming back to him in a flood, snapping together like a puzzle. 

_“I just want some damn peace!”_

**_“Well, here’s your peace!”_ **

Jaskier turned wide blue eyes on Yennefer as the memories came back - everything, from the panicked moment when he’d started vomiting blood and couldn’t speak, to when he’d watched Geralt and Yennefer-

Oh. 

Yennefer tilted her head, violet eyes sharp as she watched him. “Jaskier,” she said carefully. He shook his head, hand going to his throat as he tried to push words out for the first time since he’d been captive - and some broken part of him still fought against the memories, against his voice. 

And then, more memories came flooding back. Flashes of living in Lettenhove, running away to Oxenfurt where he drank and fucked and sang. Leaning against a pole in an inn in Posada with his lute in hand, having bread thrown at him, seeing white hair in the corner of the inn and walking over - _come on, you must have some review for me; three words or less._

Walking next to Geralt after hunting a devil, singing a song at full volume as the sun shone down and his future laid in front of him - _toss a coin to your Witcher, o valley of plenty, oh-oh-oh._ Asking a favor of Geralt, _“and the last thing I want is someone needing me-“; “and yet here we are”,_ singing at a betrothal feast in Cintra’s court. 

Sitting by a fireplace in Cintra, with Ciri, with _his_ fingers dancing across lute strings and _his_ voice filling the air. Hunting a djinn, staring through a window as Geralt and Yennefer fucked. 

Climbing a mountain to hunt a dragon, waking up late. “ _If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take_ **_you_ ** _off my hands!”_

Now- now it was too much, now Jaskier could feel the panic setting in, his vision tunneling and breaths coming short. Some part of him berated himself for having yet another panic attack, the broken part of him didn’t want to be such a burden. Jaskier forcefully dragged his breaths down before he could show any symptoms, blinked and kept Yennefer’s face in clear view, made sure he wasn’t shaking. His hand was shaking, but no one needed to know that. 

“Fuck,” he breathed, and a bolt of panic shot through him so he bit his sleeve. No talking then. But, he remembered everything. Heartbreak needled at him now, pain and mild irritation when he looked at Yennefer, and suddenly he understood why he felt so safe when Geralt held him. 

Yennefer didn’t react, didn’t make a huge deal out of any of it. “Jaskier,” she said quietly. Jaskier silently thanked her for that, because she might be the least overwhelming person of the three of them. Even Ciri might ask questions, might be confused or panic because he was acting weird. And Geralt- well. Yennefer was the only stable one, she was the only one that could truly make him relax for now. 

He lowered his arm, feeling steadier than he had since he’d been rescued - and, now he could say that it was a _rescue_ and not something terrible. He remembered why he was fighting against Nilfgaard now, he knew why he had broken and he knew he wouldn’t ever do it again if he could help it. The memories alone would be enough to haunt him for months - years, maybe. 

_I remember you,_ he thought. Yennefer’s face didn’t change, but her magic skimmed his mind so he knew she heard him. _I remember Ciri. And Geralt. I know why-_

He cut off. He wasn’t going to tell Yennefer that. Jaskier was in love with Geralt, and that was how it was going to stay. Geralt wasn’t in love with him, Yennefer didn’t need to know. It was a secret that stayed with him. 

Yennefer’s eyes softened. “I know, Jaskier.” She didn’t continue, just watched him, and suddenly Jaskier felt a lot like a bug pinned to a board. Like she knew something he didn’t. 

He glared. _I’m going inside,_ he thought in frustration, and turned on his heel and did exactly that. This time, the door slammed and he didn’t flinch. 

He did stop, however, when Geralt stood up from his place at the table and fixed his golden eyes on him, curious but not pressing. Ciri was nowhere to be found - perhaps outside the back, reading or collecting herbs. She wouldn’t go far, never as far as for Geralt to lose her scent, but even that was quite a distance. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, walking closer. Jaskier stood frozen, his newly-remembered memories flashing through his mind. He stood still when Geralt stopped two steps away from him and never did he feel a flash of fear. 

Geralt’s golden eyes met his, and Jaskier thought maybe he knew what Yennefer wasn’t telling him. 

“Geralt,” he breathed, and closed his eyes when the shadow of panic shot through him, but Geralt was reaching out now, circling his arms around him and pulling him closer and Jaskier found himself calm before he had even begun to start panicking.

Still, he took a breath before speaking again, trying not to shake when he did. “Can I-“ he said softly, and Geralt didn’t move, which he was thankful for because Jaskier didn’t know if he’d be able to continue without Geralt surrounding him with his body, his arms, the scent of leather and sword oil. “Can I tell you something?”

Geralt pulled away. “Yes, Jaskier. Anything.”

He let out a breath and nodded, as if steeling himself, then started pulling Geralt over to the bed. He stopped beside it and hesitated. This could either go terribly or amazingly, and he didn’t know which way it would go. His heart was pounding just thinking about it. 

Jaskier turned to face Geralt, whose brow was furrowed and golden eyes confused. “Jaskier, what’s-“

He cut him off with a kiss, tilting his head and leaning just slightly up - Geralt had always been the smallest bit taller than him - and felt Geralt tense in front of him. Jaskier pulled back, eyes wide, scared that he’d done something wrong-

Geralt’s hands went to Jaskier’s waist, holding him gently, like he was something fragile, and he pressed his lips back to Jaskier’s, swallowing his small hitch of breath. 

“About time,” came Yennefer’s voice from the door. They both broke apart, though somehow knew this wasn’t over, but was barely beginning, and turned to her - Jaskier suddenly energized from what he’d discovered, and Geralt irritated that she’d interrupted. “You can do that later. Ciri is coming in soon.”

She turned around and left. Geralt turned to Jaskier, who met his eyes, and Jaskier glanced down. 

Geralt’s fingers slid under his chin and lifted it, until Jaskier was forced to meet his eyes again, and Geralt slotted his lips against Jaskier’s again. He melted into it, eyes closing, before Geralt pulled back. 

“I love you,” Jaskier whispered, then shut his eyes again at the slight panic rising up at the words. Geralt pulled him close, wrapping his arms around him and sitting on the bed. Jaskier brought his legs up to fold in his lap, and Geralt swung his legs up on the bed until he could lay down and let Jaskier curl into him, adjusting the position until Geralt’s arms were circled around Jaskier as his face was buried in his black shirt. 

The darkness there wasn’t anything like Jaskier had felt before. It was the same warm, safe feeling, but he knew if he moved Geralt would let him, and he had no desire to block out all light like before - but there was still light coming through anyway. Geralt wouldn’t cage Jaskier, and this time that thought was comforting. He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to go into a dark room, or be pinned in place, again. 

The door opened, letting Yennefer and Ciri in, and Jaskier shifted closer to Geralt. He heard Yennefer’s soft voice talking to Ciri, and them taking up the other bed, and felt himself slipping into sleep. 

“Love you,” Geralt rumbled quietly in his ear, nearly a whisper - he didn’t think it was meant for Jaskier to hear, but he did. 

He smiled softly to himself and closed his eyes, knowing he had all four of them as a new family, and even though he knew he’d be haunted by the memories of Nilfgaard’s torture, he’d have them - and Geralt, especially - to help him through it. That would always be worth it in the end. 

There was no place he’d rather be. 


End file.
